


Fabric

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Pilgrim's Crown [12]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M, PoE Inktober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: His soul feels very much like the fabric of his ceremonial robes beneath her palms: well-worn but sturdy, seemingly still just as fine as in the beginning. But when she carefully runs her fingertips across it, there are barely noticeable tears.





	Fabric

**Author's Note:**

> (PoE inktober, prompt 14: Fabric)

She watches his face, peaceful but strangely pale in the first light of dawn, the trembling shadows of his eyelashes across the shadows under his eyes. Gently, cautiously, she strokes a strand of his hair lying on the pillow; she does not dare touch his face for fear he would wake, and she has no heart to disrupt his sleep.

Deòiridh remembers the first time it dawned on her that this – him sleeping at her side – is the ultimate proof of Thaos’ trust. After a few months, it still makes her melt and her eyes mist over. Sometimes, she wonders if trust is really everything he can give, but always decides that in the end, it does not matter. He is here, with her – lets her be with him – lets her touch his soul, sometimes; that is more than she dreamt of. The serenity written across his features when he sleeps – that is hers and hers alone. She would never demand anything he cannot offer, she would never even ask for anything – she only foolishly hoped, and sometimes still does – but there are quiet moments like this which she can take; small spaces where her soul touches his.

It is not much. It is everything.

Taking a slow, deep breath, she closes her eyes and reaches out towards his soul. She has no doubt that Thaos would wake up instantly if she tried to peer inside, or glimpse his thoughts – but he lets her touch it, hold it, soothe it, and that is what she wants to do – to make his dreams a little softer, smoother – or maybe to let him sleep without those.

Deòiridh is almost certain that somehow he knows she does this; but he has never said anything, so she assumes he does not mind that she looks at his soul, too. She leans in and, with great care, takes his soul into her hands. That is not exactly what she does, but there are no words in any language on Eora to describe this kind of magic properly.

His soul feels very much like the fabric of his ceremonial robes beneath her palms: well-worn but sturdy, showing little sign of use at first, seemingly still just as fine as in the beginning. But when she carefully runs her fingertips across it, there are barely noticeable tears, all mended so masterfully they are practically invisible. Some uneven, torn suddenly; but others very precise, small pieces cut out, the fabric stitched back together most artfully by Woedica herself.

Deòiridh wonders whether Thaos is aware of that, but she cannot find enough courage to ask. And she already knows enough not to even think _why_ and _what_ , to wish to never, never learn that. She tenderly brushes her thoughts along one of the smooth, straight lines. Maybe that is Woedica’s mercy, she muses. Maybe it is better for him not to know. Maybe Iovara was not the first; maybe Iovara was not the worst.

Thaos stirs, waking slowly, and she withdraws a little, but not quite, hoping to see him smile, however briefly. He does not; he blinks, then looks at her – into her eyes, mind. Deòiridh concentrates on here and now, on the feel of his soul in her hands, on the peaceful the image of him sleeping, on how his calmness is so bright it _hurts_.

The line of his mouth softens, just a little - almost a smile, an expression he reserves only for  her – and then he pulls her close, and strokes her hair as she kisses the corner of his lips. Maybe this is just a beautiful illusion – but she wants it to last; wants him to believe, just for a few breaths, that he has no cares, that he can simply remain in this moment of peace for as long as he needs.

“Good morning?” she says – asks – wishing to both greet him and inquire about his wellbeing in a way that would let him ignore the question if he wanted.

Thaos touches her cheek, his gaze watchful, and then he embraces her and kisses her forehead; she feels his lips curving into a small smile against her skin. “Yes. Yes, it is.”


End file.
